


However Improbable

by missselene



Series: fulfilling for other people [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missselene/pseuds/missselene
Summary: John goes to therapy and Sherlock does his best to be satisfied with his role as best friend and godfather. Things are as good as they are going to get. Or are they?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is part 3 of a series.

“And this is a microscope,” Sherlock explains patiently, letting Rosie touch it. “It’s used to look at things that are really, really tiny. There can be an entire world hidden in a drop of water, would you believe that? Maybe when you’re a little older, we can ask Daddy if I could get you one, too.”

“Dada?” Rosie asks, looking up at Sherlock with interest. She’s so intelligent, already able to pick up words she knows in the flow of conversation.

“Yes, we’d have to ask your Daddy if he agrees. But I’m sure he’d say yes because he loves you very much and he knows you’re a very smart young lady. Then we could do experiments together, wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Baka!” Rosie says happily, whatever it means.

“Hmm, I think so too, it would be great fun.” Sherlock glances at the clock. John will be here soon. “But now, I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you? I’m afraid your father insists on regular meal times; when you’re older you should fight him on it, it’s ridiculous.”

He lets Rosie play while he gets her lunch ready. He cooked everything last night, so he only needs to heat it up now: home-made oven-baked chicken nuggets, boiled potatoes and baby carrots. Rosie is currently going through a phase where she refuses to eat anything she can’t hold in her hand, so Sherlock does his best to comply with her wishes. He finds it an interesting challenge to try to prepare meals she’ll enjoy eating.

And he’s had increasingly more opportunities to do that recently, since John is now much more willing to leave Rosie in Sherlock’s care than he used to be, and both of them spend more time in Baker Street too. John seems… comfortable, lately. At ease.

Over the four months since that fateful day when Sherlock revealed his feelings, John started seeing a new therapist (a man this time – Paskal Dibra, 43, unmarried, originally from Macedonia, no chance of being a long-lost murderous relation of Sherlock’s). Mainly, the main theme of the therapy seems to be anger management – John’s told Sherlock as much, but Sherlock knows there’s something else, something John doesn’t want him to know about, something that made him choose a therapist whose office is inconveniently far both from John’s flat and the surgery. Sherlock has resisted the urge to look up all of Paskal’s past and present clients and find out what reasons they had to visit him to see if it would help him figure out John’s reasons. John is very obviously trying to be a better friend and Sherlock feels that, for the sake of fairness, he should be doing the same, so he’s trying to be more considerate of John’s privacy and not to poke his nose where he shouldn’t.

John is evidently very serious about the therapy, which never seemed to be the case before. He has a standing appointment at 12:30 every Wednesday and as far as Sherlock is aware, he’s never missed a single one, not even in favour of a case. Initially, whenever Sherlock saw John soon after a session, John would be miserable and irritable, but that has gradually subsided and the therapy actually seems to have had an effect. Sherlock still remembers how shocked he was the first time he expected John to slam his fist on the table and shout, but he didn’t. It was only when moments like that started occurring more and more that Sherlock realised how _often_ he predicted John would react in anger – and he used to be right.

John is less quick to lose his temper now, he’s taken up running as a method to release stress and he’s cutback on his alcohol consumption. He takes more interest in his daughter and is less prone to losing his patience with her. He spend more time with Sherlock, even outside of cases. He just seems _happier_ , overall. And if this is what Sherlock voicing his feelings has led to, then he can’t regret it, even if he doesn’t really understand John’s reasoning behind it. The initial awkwardness has dissipated and things are better now than they used to be.

There is the small matter of the fact that John has stopped wearing his wedding ring and may therefore start dating again soon, but Sherlock will cross that bridge when he comes to it. He’s done it before, he can do it again. Rosie certainly deserves to have two parents, and if John can find a woman who will love her like her own, he’ll have Sherlock’s full support. If Sherlock has to give another best man’s speech, then that’s what he will do.

But for now, he can enjoy spending time with John and Rosie, and that’s good enough.

John comes in just as Sherlock is trying to stop Rosie from mashing potatoes all over herself like some sort of facial mask.

“Dada!” Rosie exclaims excitedly and slams her hand on her plastic plate as a form of greeting.

“Hello, darling. I see there’s food on your forehead, so it must be good,” John says with a smile and bends down to kiss the top of her head. As he does so he looks at Sherlock, and giggles.

“Sherlock – there’s some on yours too.”

“Hmm?”

“On your forehead,” John explains, then picks up a napkin from the table and wipes something off Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock ducks his head, feeling a blush rise up in his cheeks.

“Thanks,” he murmurs and changes the topic quickly.  “Rosie clearly has the makings of a scientist. I was thinking she could get her own microscope when she’s a bit older.”

John chuckles. “Yeah, two mad scientists in my life, what could go wrong?”

“Microscopes aren’t dangerous, John,” Sherlock points out.

“I know, I’m just imagining you two doing experiments together,” John says, and he sounds amused and… fond? “I know you’d never let her come to any harm.” He clears his throat. “If you’re done eating, I thought we could go to the park? The weather’s lovely. Unless you’re busy, of course.”

“No, not busy,” Sherlock says, not adding that he’d always make time for John.

“Great,” John grins at him. “What do you think, Rosie? Shall we take Sherlock to the park?”

*

As much as Sherlock enjoys spending time with John and Rosie, it always makes him a little nervous when it’s in public, because people sometimes tend to assume that he’s Rosie’s other parent. John no longer jumps in immediately to insist that he’s not gay and usually doesn’t correct people unless not correcting them would lead to further misunderstandings and awkwardness (clearly out of consideration for Sherlock, to avoid drawing more attention that necessary to the fact that they’re not a couple), but it obviously makes him uncomfortable.

Sherlock tends to stay quiet in those situations - it’s bad enough that even complete strangers can see what he wants, he doesn’t need to make it any worse for himself. As they walk along the paths in Regent’s Park, he looks at the people they pass and wonders how many of them think that, how many of them think that and don’t care, how many are disgusted, how many think Sherlock, John and Rosie make a nice little family.

He deduces things about some of those people and shares them with John if they’re interesting – and if there’s nothing interesting, he makes something up to make John laugh. John can mostly tell these days when Sherlock’s fibbing, but he laughs anyway, and that’s all that matters. They buy ice cream and sit on a bench to it (in peace, thankfully, as Rosie has fallen asleep in her pushchair) and he tells John about the case he solved the day before yesterday - a rather gruesome affair involving a pair of human ears mailed to an unsuspecting widow.

“By the way, when I stopped by the morgue, Molly was completely unfocused because apparently you gave her a spa weekend for her birthday. She couldn’t talk about anything else.”

“Oh, yeah.” John clears his throat, apparently embarrassed, and a suspicion suddenly occurs to Sherlock. Could John have… designs on Molly? Nothing in his past behaviour ever indicated he saw her as anything but a friend, but you never know, and Molly certainly helps out with Rosie a lot… “I felt bad because of how much I’ve been using her help, I think she really deserves to spend some time on herself.”

Ah. Probably just a part of John’s self-improvement project, then, trying to be more appreciative of his friends. But still, better test his hypothesis to be sure. “And where and when will this _spa weekend_ take place?” he asks.

“Some old manor house in Hertfordshire and she can pick the weekend. Why?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I was just wondering if there’s a way we could fabricate a reason for Lestrade to be there at the same time.”

“Greg? Why?”

“So that they can finally acknowledge and act on their mutual attraction, of course.”

John stares at him. “What, Greg and Molly?” He blinks, then frowns. “Actually, I can sort of see that.” No signs that he wants Molly for himself. Good. “Did either of them say anything to you?”

“Do I look like someone people confide their romantic aspirations to? But they obviously like each other, and I think they could be good together.”

John chuckles. “Well, if you want to play matchmaker, I think it would be easier to do here.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Sherlock says, as if actually giving it serious thought. “I think a spa might present more favourable conditions. Here, Molly’s bound to be overworked and stressed and therefore less receptive to Lestrade’s fumbling attempts at courting. Whereas in a spa, she’d be relaxed after a massage, perhaps feeling more confident after a beauty treatment…”

John laughs. “Have a lot of experience with beauty treatments, do you?”

“Excuse me, I obviously don’t need any,” Sherlock scoffs in mock offence.

John laughs but turns away from Sherlock to look down at his hands as his laughter dies down.

“No,” he says, and the atmosphere seems to change subtly. Sherlock swallows, suddenly unsure. What does John mean by this?

John clears his throat.

“Since we’re on the subject of presents… I’ve actually got something for you, too.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“No, but, well. Here you go.”

He takes out an envelope from a side pocket of Rosie’s nappy bag and hands it to Sherlock. Sherlock frowns and lifts the flap, taking out two theatre tickets. The Bolshoi Ballet at the Royal Opera House, _Le Corsaire_ , next week. Some of the very best seats, judging by the price.

He looks up at John, who is watching him expectantly.

“Where did you get these?” he asks.

“A colleague at the surgery got them for his wife, but she broke her leg so she can’t go, and he says she’s the only one who could ever make him voluntarily sit through ‘three hours of prancing’, so he was looking to sell them.”

Sherlock looks at the tickets and back at John, confused. But why would John do this? They don’t give each other random gifts. Is it also meant as a thank you for taking care of Rosie? Surely he must know that isn’t necessary. Doesn’t he know that?

“John… thank you, but you don’t have to do that. I don’t need a reward for… it’s not a chore for me to spend time with Rosie, I like doing it.”

“No, it’s not - It just struck me as something you might like. A story about a pirate? You do like ballet, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says haltingly, still rather taken aback. If he is to spend hours trapped in a building with hundreds of idiots, he generally prefers concerts of classical music, but he doesn’t object to a good ballet now and then, and it’s true he doesn’t particularly mind looking at the muscular thighs of male ballet dancers.  “But won’t _you_ mind sitting through three hours of prancing?”

“Well – no. If there isn’t anyone else you’d rather take?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock says, before he realises what John means. _If you haven’t finally got over your stupid crush on me and found yourself someone who actually wants you._ The thought feels like a sting, but the answer is the same – of course not.

John smiles at him, like Sherlock’s answer actually makes him happy, and Sherlock can’t help but smile back.

*

The thing is – it all feels a little bit like a date. It’s not, of course, and it’s probably just Sherlock’s lack of personal experience with the concept that makes him think that. But the truth is that they don’t usually make plans in advance to go out and spend time together – there are cases and spur-of-the-moment decisions, that’s all. They don’t gift each other expensive ballet tickets. John doesn’t come to pick Sherlock up, wearing a midnight blue suit (off the rack, but a reasonably good fit) that brings out his eyes, a whiff of cologne, his hair neatly combed. It’s… strange. But Sherlock tries not to pick at it, not to try deducing what’s behind it. He wants to enjoy this evening with John – a rare opportunity with neither a case nor Rosie. It feels too precious to ruin it by examining it like a piece of evidence.

Sherlock has a good time and it seems that John does, too, even though ballet isn’t usually his entertainment of choice. The performance, while not the best Sherlock has ever seen, is enjoyable, and sitting close to John makes up for the fact that there is essentially no leg room. They giggle over smoked salmon and champagne during the interval and John seems happy, his face open and relaxed, his eyes on Sherlock warm and attentive. It makes Sherlock slightly flustered, but he figures that maybe this is simply what John is like now, when he has let go of grief and guilt and anger. When he’s allowing himself to be happy again. Sherlock wishes he could stay like that forever.

It’s late when they return to Baker Street. Rosie is with Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock had suggested John should just sleep in his old room rather than going all the way to back the suburbs. They get off the cab and Sherlock unlocks the door and it feels so much like _before_ , like going home together, it almost hurts.

Sherlock doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to say good night just yet, doesn’t want to go to sleep and wake up on a day when John leaves. It’s stupid, but he finds himself wanting to prolong the fantasy that he has John for himself. He thinks about suggesting a nightcap, but John is trying to drink less and they already had champagne, so perhaps that’s not the best idea. But John seems reluctant to go to bed too, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“A cup of tea before bed?” Sherlock offers instead, hopeful.

“Why not?” John says with a warm smile. “Something herbal, though, it’s too late for caffeine.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but complies and makes two mugs of peppermint tea (which he only has because John drinks it, anyway). He carries them to the living room and is surprised to find John sitting on the sofa rather than in his chair. He’s taken off his shoes, and the sight of his socked feet on the carpet makes Sherlock feel unexpectedly nostalgic.

“Thanks,” John says as he takes his mug from Sherlock, his fingertips brushing over Sherlock’s knuckles, leaving a trail of warmth behind them.

“Thank you, too, John,” Sherlock says when he sits down next to him. It comes out a little stiff, but he wants to say it. “It’s been a nice evening.”

“Mmm, yeah,” John says contentedly.

“Although I am a little surprised _you_ think so. I didn’t think ballet was your style. I admit a part of me expected you to fall asleep.”

John laughs, but then seems to hesitate and sits up straighter. He looks at Sherlock with unexpected seriousness.

“Do you want to know why I didn’t?” he asks.

“You didn’t want to embarrass me?” Sherlock suggests, feeling suddenly rather wrong-footed.

“No.” John takes a deep breath. “I didn’t fall asleep because I didn’t really pay much attention to the performance. Most of the time, I was looking at you.”

Sherlock freezes. The world around him seems to fall away, the ambient noises blending into a monotonous hum. John is looking at him intently and Sherlock’s heart doubles its pace even though his brain cannot understand what John means.

For a moment it seems like John is waiting for him to say something, and when Sherlock doesn’t, his gaze drops to… to Sherlock’s _mouth_ and he licks his own lips… and then he leans in.

Sherlock jerks his head back fast enough to nearly give himself whiplash, a sudden flood of panic rising in his chest.

“What are you doing?” he asks, and his voice sounds alien to his own ears.

“I’m – trying to kiss you,” John says, his eyes tracking over Sherlock’s face. “But… perhaps I should ask first if it’s okay.”

Sherlock stands up abruptly to put some distance between himself and John, even as every single nerve in his body seems to be screaming at him not to, to stay put when what he’s wanted for so long is finally on offer. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done – it feels like his entire chest is constricting in an attempt to prevent his heart from shattering along the deeply engraved cracks. Tea sloshes out of the mug as he places it on the table – his hands are shaking.

“Don’t. Please,” he croaks and presses the heels of hands to his eyes. He feels like he’s falling apart – this _seems_ like it’s what he wants, for John to kiss him, to want him, but it’s not, it’s _not_ , it can’t be. It’s just one more thing that would eventually take all his hard-won shreds of happiness and stamp all over them.

“Sherlock—”

“Please, John, you know I – I’d do anything for you, but please don’t ask me to… I don’t know if you’re doing this out of loneliness or - or pity or… but it’s not what you really want, you’d regret it and it would – I couldn’t bear it.” He struggles to speak, his chest is contracting painfully and he can’t seem to take a full breath, and a distant part of his brain wonders if he’s actually having a panic attack over this.

“Sherlock, please sit down, you’re shaking.”

Sherlock lets the touch of John’s hand guide him back down on the sofa because it actually feels like his knees might give out. God, he’s even more pathetic than he thought. He covers his face with his hands and tries to deepen his breaths.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John says very softly. “It’s not – it’s not what you think at all, I would never do that to you… although I honestly can’t blame you if you find that hard to believe, after how I treated you. But I promise you, I’m being entirely serious here. I… please, can you look at me?”

 _No_ , Sherlock thinks, but John sits there quietly and waits for his response, and Sherlock knows, somehow, that he’ll wait however long it takes. He takes a shaky breath and lifts his head.

There’s sadness in John’s eyes, but also hope and determination and something else that Sherlock can’t quite name

“I love you,” John says, firm and sure, and Sherlock’s heart may actually stop beating for a moment. _I love you_. It’s not a thing John would say lightly – but it can’t be true, how could it be true? He can almost feel his brain grind to a halt at the cognitive dissonance of it.

“I don’t know if you can believe it, after all that mess,” John continues gently. “But it’s true, it’s… sometimes it feels like the only true thing in the world. I’m so, so sorry it took me so long to be able to say it.”

“But you’re not gay,” Sherlock points out, trying to make sense of the complete chaos inside him.

“No,” John says with a small, rueful quirk of the lips. “I’m – bisexual. And this is the first time I’ve actually said it out loud to anyone. Well, aside from…”

“Your therapist,” Sherlock breathes – clearly a part of his brain is still functional, still putting things together.

“Yes. I know you were wondering why I chose a therapist at the other side of London – well, this is why. I went to him because I heard he was very good with sexuality issues. It turns out most of the things that I fucked up in my life were tied to that somehow, that I couldn’t accept this about myself. It’s why I… It’s the reason why I was so… unkind, so…” he looks at his hand lying on his thigh, flexing his fingers, “… aggressive with you. I couldn’t cope with the fact that I was in love with you and I took it out on you.” He looks back up at Sherlock, and his eyes are shiny. Are those tears? “I tried to cover up how I felt by being harsh and… cruel to you, and that’s – unforgivable. But if you _can_ forgive it, if you think you could let me try to make it up to you, then… I’m yours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock can barely breathe. He feels frozen to the spot but thawing at the same time, warmth spreading throughout his body. It’s a struggle to speak, still, but for a different reason now.

“Of course I… Of course I forgive you. You’ve forgiven me for worse.”

John shakes his head like he doesn’t believe it, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he lifts his hand and cups Sherlock’s cheek, soft, tender, the kind of touch Sherlock had never dared to hope for from John. He leans his face into John’s palm but doesn’t break eye contact, because he can see his own feelings mirrored in John’s eyes, and he knows, knows with a bone-deep certainty, that this can’t be faked. John means it. John… is his.

“John,” he means to say, but what comes out is more a sob than a word. He knows, rationally, that he should be happy, and on some deep level he _is_ happy, but the shock of it is too much. Years of longing and heartbreak and loneliness and now suddenly this, _John_.

He lets his forehead fall on John’s shoulder and lets himself collapse into John, because John is there to catch him. John wraps his arms around him and Sherlock lets the tears fall, lets the years’ worth of heartache flow away.

“I know, love,” John whispers to him. “I know. I love you.” He kisses the top of Sherlock’s head and rocks him gently, and Sherlock would never have imagined it possible to feel so completely at peace while crying.

When he finally stops trembling he lifts his head to look at John, still rather stunned that this is all actually happening. He knows his face must be reddened and blotched and puffy, but John smiles at him like Sherlock is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Can I, now?” John asks, and Sherlock nods.

John leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, his tear-stained cheeks, his eyelids, and Sherlock’s heart beat picks up in anticipation before finally, finally, John’s lips find his.

Sherlock had never allowed himself to imagine what kissing John might be like, but if he had he most probably wouldn’t have imagined it like this – wet and salty but perfect anyway, soft and gentle and reverent, one kiss blending into the next, separating only to meet again, chaste pecks turning into slick slides of tongue against tongue and then gentling again in a glorious cycle, over and over until Sherlock’s lips tingle and he’s smiling into the kisses, until he’s smiling so wide he can’t kiss anymore.

Sherlock opens his kiss-swollen mouth and says the words like he never thought he would – not a painful admission of secret, hidden feelings but an easy, joyful offering that’s accepted and wanted: “I love you.”

Sherlock’s heart always used to leap when John smiled at him – now, it soars.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! There should be one more story in this series.


End file.
